His Regret Began at My Funeral

I shook my head softly. "I'm fine. You should have the soup first." Lorenzo looked momentarily puzzled, then obediently lifted the thermos and finished the broth in one long pull. His amber eyes held that strange mix of warmth and urgency that men in his world rarely allowed themselves, and his lips, flushed from the heat of it, glistened in the low light of the study. He held up the empty container with a grin too boyish for a man other men feared. "Finished it." Taking my hand, Lorenzo drew me through the concealed door into the private quarters off his office, past the soldier who stepped aside without a word and lowered his eyes as we passed. His voice was tender, almost reverent. "Thank you for the soup. Why don't you take a little rest?" He coaxed me onto the wide bed, tucking me beneath the heavy comforter. Then he settled in beside me and pulled me into his arms. His chin rested lightly on the top of my head, his embrace firm and certain, the embrace of a man who had never once doubted what was his. "Still cold?" he murmured against my hair. I gave a faint hum, closing my eyes to the sound of his heartbeat. Time blurred while I lay cocooned in his warmth. Soon the slow, even rhythm of his breathing told me he had fallen asleep. The dim glow of his phone lit the nightstand and drew my eye. I was curious, so I fished it out from beside the pillow. A message from his courier waited on the screen. I keyed in the password, but it didn't work. Lorenzo's code had always been my birthday or his own. I turned the phone over and ran my thumb across the back. There was no trace of the dent I'd left on the one he carried in front of me. This wasn't that phone. Since neither date worked, I tried another. Our betrothal day, maybe. Wrong again. I sat frozen, my thumb pressing without thought against the old scar on my wrist. Then Bianca's name surfaced in my mind. I began feeding the phone dates tied to her birthday. After several failed attempts, it finally unlocked. I smiled without meaning to, pride and grief washing through me at once. So this was the phone he kept for her. I opened the message from his courier. [Don Falcone, the transfer deed for the beachfront tower is finalized.] A file sat beneath it. I opened it. The name on the deed was clear. Bianca Sartori. I scrolled. More deeds. Estate papers, a villa, a limited-run car worth more than most men in this life ever cleaned in a year. The beachfront tower was only one stone in a fortune he had quietly funneled to her, all of it dressed as legitimate holdings, all of it hers. The earliest record was a will. After his death, everything he owned would pass to Bianca. The screen dimmed from disuse, and in the dark reflection I saw my own lifeless eyes and the reddened, tear-stained line of my nose staring back at me. I was the one who turned this Family's money clean. The architect every boss in the territory trusted with their tribute. And yet here I was, blindsided by a truth that should have been plain. I had managed Lorenzo's wealth for years and never once seen that most of it bled out to someone else. My reflection seemed to be laughing at me. Then a detail caught my eye. A photo of a jeweler's certificate for a betrothal ring. I froze. It was the same ring I'd fallen in love with the day we chose our bands. Back then Lorenzo had dismissed it with a tight, strained smile. "My wife deserves something bigger. Something with weight to it. This one is too plain," he'd said. The jeweler had gushed about how fortunate I was, to be promised to such a generous man. Wanting to please him, I'd chosen the heavier, showier ring, though my heart had stayed with the simple one. Three days ago, Bianca had posted a single live photo to her feed. No caption. But there it was, the understated ring sitting on her finger. My hands trembling, I played the audio buried in the image. The noise of some crowded room nearly drowned the voices, but Lorenzo's came through clear as a struck bell. "I knew you'd love it." The realization hit me like a freight train. It had only ever been an excuse. He hadn't refused it for me. He'd refused it because it was always meant for her. My fingers clenched around the phone, nails biting into my palm as my chest heaved with silent sobs. When I finally looked down, my knuckles had gone white and the screen had dimmed again. I set the phone back on the nightstand. And I made my decision. By tomorrow I would be gone. On my own phone, I booked a one-way passage across the water to Dubai, far past the reach of the old Families, far past anything Lorenzo had built around me. The next morning, Lorenzo had already gone. His courier let himself in, carrying a tray of toiletries and a polite smile that asked for nothing and revealed less. He glanced at the watch on his wrist before he spoke. "Good morning, Miss Valente. Don Falcone left last night. Urgent business out of the territory. He asked me to tell you the betrothal feast is postponed two days." I nodded without really hearing, my gaze fixed on the window as the sun climbed over the harbor. Two days. He wouldn't find me in two days. By the time he came home, I would be gone. Vanished from his world for good.

I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion weighing me down. “Just leave them there,” I said, my voice listless. My phone chimed, signaling a new post. Curious, I tapped into it. Bianca had put up a video. In it, she stood on the deck of a yacht, fishing in a bikini. A man’s arms wrapped snugly around her slim waist from behind. Even from the shaky footage, I recognized the watch on his wrist. It was the birthday gift I had given Lorenzo last year. The location tag read Thailand. A dull ache spread through my chest, sharp and relentless. So, the reason Lorenzo had postponed our blood-bound union wasn’t business at all. He’d called it an urgent matter, an absence no one in the Family questioned. The truth was simpler. He had crossed an ocean to fish beside the woman he truly cherished. I went through the motions of washing up, then arranged a car back to the estate to pack my things. Just as I was zipping up my suitcase, the atelier Lorenzo had commissioned arrived to deliver a sample of the wedding gown. “Delivery for Miss Bianca Sartori. A custom piece from Mr. Falcone. Congratulations on your union, Miss Sartori,” the courier announced brightly. I froze for a moment, staring at the garment bag in his hands. It bore the unmistakable mark of MN’s private bridal line. The gown Lorenzo had chosen for me at MN’s house had been a limited runway piece, nothing more. This was bespoke, cut and stitched by hand for one body and one body only. The difference wasn’t only in the craftsmanship. It was in intention. I forced a bitter smile. “Thank you, but I’m not Bianca.” The courier blinked at me, confused. Then his face changed as the truth landed. He stammered out a string of apologies and hurried off, plainly mortified. As I watched the crew go, movement caught the corner of my eye. Lorenzo had returned. And Bianca was with him. “Hi, Cousin, how are you? It’s so good to see you!” she sang, the warmth running over like spilled wine. Yet I heard the lie beneath it as she went on, “I was coming to visit, and I happened to run into your fiancé down in the parking court. So we walked up together. I hope you don’t mind.” The weight she set on don’t mind was a blade, slid in clean. Lorenzo frowned faintly, irritated by the way she named him my fiancé. I forced a smile. “Of course not.” Why would I mind? I’d be gone soon enough. Lorenzo didn’t love me. Whether I cared or not changed nothing in this house. I had no wish to sit and trade pleasantries with them, so I went upstairs to my room. I left the door open as I began to pack. Lorenzo appeared a moment later, leaning against the doorframe. He came toward me, hands in his pockets, then drew out a ruby necklace, the stone the size of a pigeon’s egg. “It’s, um, a peace offering. Will you forgive me?” He thought I was wounded because he’d delayed the betrothal feast. That wasn’t it at all. I was tired of his charade. Tired of watching him force himself to love me. When I said nothing, Lorenzo unfastened the clasp and slipped the chain around my neck. “The Family’s hosting a celebration tonight. Come with me,” he said. “I can’t,” I replied, pushing my suitcase past him. “I have plans.” “You wouldn’t want your fiancé walking into a room full of every boss in the territory with another woman on his arm, would you? Besides, there’ll be a lot of important people there tonight. I think you’ll enjoy it.” I hesitated, my hand going still on the handle of the suitcase. This crossing to neutral ground, far from the Families’ reach. It might be a one-way passage. I might never set foot here again. Perhaps I should use the night to say goodbye to a few of the people I’d once worked beside, the ones who’d sat across the same tables and trusted my hands with their cleaned cash. I gave a small nod. Lorenzo’s mood lifted at once. He sent for a stylist and a girl to do my face, both up the stairs within the hour. An hour later I came down in a floor-length couture gown with a long, sweeping train, the ruby resting against my collarbone. When Lorenzo saw me, something kindled in his eyes as he opened the car door. “You look beautiful.” Just as I stepped toward Lorenzo’s car, Bianca pushed past me, lifting her hem with a flourish. “This gown is far too big for that little car. Can we switch, Addie?” Bianca asked, her voice dripping sweetness. The ruby at her own throat, larger and more brilliant than mine, caught the light and threw it back in glittering shards that felt almost like mockery. I glanced down at my necklace, its slender chain and modest stone suddenly looking like something pulled from a market stall. “My dress is large too,” I answered, cold, refusing to be drawn into her game. Bianca pouted, leaning in close to Lorenzo. “But I get carsick. I need the bigger car,” she whined, her voice gone soft and pitiful, as if she were some fragile thing in need of a man’s protection.

She pouted, her lips trembling slightly as she looked at Lorenzo with feigned innocence. Lorenzo gave me a doting smile, but his hand moved behind his back to reassure her. I watched their interaction in silence, a cold laugh echoing in my mind. Did he not realize how obvious he was? Lorenzo gently reached for my hand, his tone laced with that all-too-familiar coaxing. “Come on, tesoro. It’s just a seat. Let her have it. After all, she’s your blood. Switch with her, okay?” His voice was laced with tenderness, his eyes filled with an affection that seemed reserved for me. Yet his words defended another woman. I gave him a faint smile, lifting my gown as I walked toward the car waiting at the rear of the motorcade. “Fine,” I said coolly. At least this way, I wouldn’t have to endure the sight of him pretending anymore. The gala hall buzzed with conversation as the territory’s finest milled about in their best silk and gold, every boss flanked by men who never quite stopped watching the doors. Bianca was already holding a glass of red wine, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she approached me. “Oh, Adriana,” she said with a mocking lilt, “how could you be so sloppy? Look at your dress. It’s all wrinkled. Couldn’t you have at least ironed it before wearing it?” I ignored her, turning toward the dessert table to pick out a small cake. I hadn’t had breakfast and my stomach was growling. At this point, satisfying my hunger was far more important than engaging with her nonsense. But Bianca wasn’t done. She followed me. “Do you think I’m just going to steal your man?” Her tone dripped with smug satisfaction. I took a bite of the cake, glancing at her with mild curiosity. Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Stay and watch. It’s just the beginning.” The host took the dais moments later, calling the room to order for the night’s recognition of the Family’s finest earner. Bianca’s name was called. She rose and crossed to the stage with practiced grace, her lively demeanor engaging Lorenzo with a knowing look. The eyes of every made man and every wife in the room shifted between the three of us. I could feel the pity as their gaze landed on me. On the screen behind her, Bianca’s record began to roll, the laundered returns and cleaned accounts laid out like trophies. A silent partner named Don Marino, whose tribute had been cleaned at returns exceeding twenty percent, was hailed as a miracle in the trade. The crowd murmured in admiration. “She is so amazing!” “The last one to move money like this was the Don’s own betrothed, the legendary Valente girl!” “You call that legend? Her best was only fifteen percent, while Bianca’s hit twenty. Now, that’s a legend.” She may have stolen my man, but I didn’t care. Because any man who could be stolen wasn’t worth having. But stealing the work I’d bled for, the books I’d built clean with my own hands? That, I couldn’t tolerate. Anger surged through me as I crossed to the stage and took the microphone from the startled host before he could think to stop me. “Breaking the trade with a twenty percent return? I’m sure the room would love to hear exactly how you managed it, Bianca,” I said, my voice steady but icy. Bianca froze, caught off guard by the direct challenge. “I… uh… well…” she stammered, her eyes darting toward Lorenzo for help. Her hand drifted to the base of her throat. He stepped in smoothly, his tone firm but measured. “That’s family business. We don’t open the books in front of the room.” I let out a dry laugh, unfazed by his attempt to deflect. “Family business? Then let me ask you this, Bianca. Do you know what Don Marino’s tribute is tied to? Do you know his full name? How he built what he has?” The rapid-fire questions left her visibly rattled, her confident facade crumbling as she struggled to form a coherent answer. She laughed, a half-beat too soon, her fingers pressing to her throat again. “Y-you…” she stuttered, her voice trembling, “are you accusing me?” Before I could respond, she suddenly swayed, collapsing toward me with an exaggerated cry. We tumbled to the floor of the dais in a chaotic tangle of limbs and fabric. Bianca clutched her ankle, her face contorted in pain. “Why did you push me, Adriana?” she wailed, her voice carrying through the hall. “My ankle… it hurts so much!” The microphone, now lying at her feet, amplified her words, ensuring every boss in the room heard the accusation loud and clear. Disdainful murmurs rippled through the crowd as every eye turned on me. I met their judgmental stares head-on, refusing to flinch. Lorenzo started toward the stage, his face a mask of concern. But before he could reach us, the platform beneath us groaned ominously. A second later, it gave way. Bianca screamed, clutching at the nearest steel beam as debris rained down around us. “Lorenzo! Save me!” she shrieked, her voice shrill with terror. Amid the chaos, I glanced at my wrist, now bleeding from a deep gash where a sharp edge had sliced through my skin. Blood was everywhere. I’ve been terrified of blood since I was a child, and the sight of it now made me freeze in panic. My instinct was to run, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. Lorenzo shoved a steel beam aside and crawled toward us. Relief surged through me, and I instinctively called out to him for help. “Lorenzo, I’m here! Help me!” His focus, however, was entirely on Bianca. He hurriedly gathered her up, sparing me only a brief glance. “If you hadn’t caused a scene, Bianca wouldn’t have been trapped. And now you’re asking me for help? Shame on you,” he snapped. The pretense was gone. He didn’t even bother to hide his disdain for me in this life-and-death moment. Trembling, I held up my bleeding hand. “Lorenzo, my hand is bleeding. If I don’t get to a hospital soon, I might die. Please, take me first.” For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. But then Bianca clung to his shirt, her voice weak. “Lorenzo, it hurts…” He immediately shifted his attention back to her, his expression filled with panic. “I know, I’m sorry. But it’s going to be okay. We’ll get you out. You’re going to be okay.” He turned and started walking away with her in his arms. Fear overtook me as I stumbled after him, tears streaming down my face. “Lorenzo, please! I’m scared. Take me to the hospital!” He didn’t even look back, his pace quickening as he carried Bianca to safety. She glanced over his shoulder, meeting my desperate gaze with a cruel smirk. Though she didn’t speak, her lips silently formed the words: “Left again. Poor Adriana.” Their figures disappeared into the distance, leaving me behind. I collapsed onto the floor, my body weak and trembling. Being abandoned wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t abandon myself. Summoning all my strength, I pushed the heavy steel beam off me, ignoring the searing pain in my injured hand. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to free myself. My thumb found the old scar on my wrist before I even understood why, pressing hard against it. In that small, deliberate pressure, the decision was already made. I made it to a doctor on my own. What should have been a clean five-stitch wound became an eighteen-stitch ordeal, the flesh torn further when I moved the beam. As I sat in that sterile room, anger and resolve swirled within me. On the way to the airport, I paid a man more than most earn in a year. I told him to prepare a body and erase every trace of me from the territory. I wanted to vanish from Lorenzo’s world entirely, the way only someone who knows too much is ever allowed to leave. As the speakers called the final boarding for the flight across the water, I stood at the gate with my single case. I took one last look at the city that had owned me, and whispered, “Goodbye, Lorenzo.”